


Firecracker Skies

by kurgaya



Series: Hallucinogenic Gentleman [6]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/F, Family Shenanigans, Female Ichigo, Female Tōshirō, Fluff, Humor, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 19:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2553524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tōshirō doesn't know what she was thinking when she agreed to involve herself with a family as barbaric as this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firecracker Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corisanna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corisanna/gifts).



> I cannot even begin to pretend that this is anything other than 12k of shameless comfort fic (and some hurty-comforty character backstory because plot - headcanon alert! :3).

Ichigo’s room in the Kurosaki family home has hardly changed since the teenager moved out. Though into boxes the impression of her personality has been packed, the four walls of the compact bedroom still seem to have retained some of the vibrancy of her presence. With the absence of the posters, bookshelf, and desk that used to decorate the room with snippets of memories and an intellectual, aspiring personality, Tōshirō is heartened to note that the cupboard and bed have reserved their place as she slides open the glass panel of the window. The curtains waver like candles as the captain slips through them, the fawn of their creases reaching out with gentle fingers to greet the winter breeze. The caramel of the carpet mumbles in greeting when two silent feet trail frost in the aftermath of their wake, the straw waraji leaving a chill of welcome behind them. They are familiar sensations of homecoming and Tōshirō allows herself a smile in the quiet of the room. The furnishing around her is sparse, the old occupant a grown woman now (or a growing woman, at any least, though both are debatable), so the wintry captain locates her desire without any trouble.

On the bed, the slumbering shinigami substitute grunts a snore and buries further under the duvet. The blissful scarlet of her cheeks hides from the whisper of snow that descends from faint clouds gathering above her. Tōshirō huffs and scatters the snowflakes before they can tease her girlfriend, scowling at the remnants of her reiatsu as the chill trickles around her fingers in question.

Another snore erupts. Snow puffs about the room in a merry flurry.

“Oh, _honestly_ ,” says the captain, fighting back a smirk. Pushing her fringe away from her forehead, she reins her reiatsu in with a half-hearted grumble and wills it to _behave, for god’s sake – you’re not a love-struck teenager Tōshirō Hitsugaya_. The tempest that coils inside of her complies, though the captain has to force herself to disregard the distant titter of amusement from the greater half of her soul.

Heedless, Ichigo continues to mumble through her dreams. She’s a melted splodge of marmalade atop the bed, the nakedness of her figure wound in and out of the sheets in a spread of gawky beauty. The likelihood that she donned something to bed is dubious – it’s July and she’s gorgeous, so murder is easy. Moreover, she’s thoroughly spoken for, so Tōshirō only feels a glimmer of disgrace before striding across the room and perching on the end of the bed where her girlfriend sleeps oblivious.

The heavy layers to her kimono shuffle. In comparison to the light of her partner, duties and time swamp the captain. They collect in the stitches to her uniform and bleed into the dye of her haori, the green and venomous palette of the Tenth Division. Yet Tōshirō cannot say she particularly minds the weight of her worth, and she certainly has better things to dwell on when Ichigo yawns into cognisance and peers through the sleep sticking her eyelashes together with her customary frown.

It’s comforting, Tōshirō muses idly, that the extent of her girlfriend’s facial expressions are consistent even at the break of dawn. She smiles at this titbit of knowledge and files it away to recall when overtime forces her to work in the office to meet her next impending deadline. It’s fortunate that she does, too, because a hasty shriek then shatters the pleasant scene as Ichigo attempts to roll over and grasps the existence of the figure sitting pensively beside the bare of her skin. The substitute _veers_ out of the bed, tumbling sideways in her haste to correct her comprehension of the scene, and crashes onto the floor in a tangle of crimson grumbles and sky-blue pillows.

Tōshirō simply presses her feet together tidily and pretends she hadn’t accidentally snagged the end of the duvet. She doesn’t weigh _that_ much, after all, even if she’s reinforced by tremendous glacial fortifications and has a magnificent ice serpent resting in her soul. There’s no way she could have predicted her involvement in Ichigo’s scrambled plummet into awakening.

When Ichigo’s wildfire hair bursts out of the duvet pile, she looks wholly overjoyed at the sight of her girlfriend. The captain won’t admit to the warm and fuzzy feeling she feels at the grin that inflates across the ginger’s scruffy expression, but her icy reiatsu stubbornly tries to stretch towards the fire that complements it. Ichigo’s blush suggests that the blizzard has been caught in the act.

“ _Tōsh_ ,” the substitute greets warmly, blatantly ignoring the automatic scowl she earns at the nickname. “What are you doing here? Does my family know you’re in?”

“Good morning to you as well,” Tōshirō replies, her words far more elegant than the way Ichigo battles her way out of the snare and clambers to her feet. The substitute _is_ wearing something, the captain is amused to see, yet the thin straps and the marginally knee-length fabric of the silky black nightdress still leave little to the imagination. Even as she scrambles around for her sentience like a lanky Labrador, Ichigo looks stunning. Tōshirō feels awkwardly overdressed all of a sudden, but she refrains from making any comments about it in favour of admiring the dips and arches of her partner’s body.

“Huh?” Ichigo blurts in reply, although there is every chance that her muddled cognition is aimed at the bundle of cloth she is dancing around. The duvet has been gathered up, and she is now trying to dump it back onto the bed in some manner of its previous order. “Oh – yeah, morning.”

A mischievous grin lights her face. It is the only reason Tōshirō doesn’t resist as she’s poked and poked and poked until Ichigo’s foot has moved her far enough along the bed for the sheets to be rearranged around her.

“And no,” the captain goes on all the while, rolling her eyes as Ichigo tries to shove the duvet under her legs. “I will have to announce myself in a moment – I came in through the window. I hope I’m not imposing.”

“ _In-tru-da window_ ,” Ichigo mutters to herself, eliciting a giggle. Tōshirō stares at her blankly, raising an expectant eyebrow, and the substitute groans into the pillow she’s clasping. “Oh god, you need to catch up on modern TV. Even _Chihiro_ has seen that programme – and no, of course you’re not _imposing_. Don’t be daft, you’re family. Impose as much as you like.”

Mid-way through her chatter, the glowing substitute leans down and kisses her awaiting girlfriend on the jaw. It’s only a passing moment in between the untroubled verse, so Tōshirō slides her arm around the smooth of Ichigo’s chemise and entices her partner back down for an encore, silencing the routine rambling to the morning. Fervent hands glide through her snowy mane, obliging to the change. Tōshirō traces her fingertips down the length of Ichigo’s nightdress, appreciating the touch of silk beneath her palm and the trail of adoration combing back her hair.

The young half-shinigami laughs as they separate from the kiss and dots her lips into the silvery fringe. “Love your hair,” she mumbles, clearly reluctant to cease her play with the stormy strands. There’s nothing special about the way Tōshirō has gathered it today – she has managed to escape from the restrains of her office for one day, so she has tied it loosely into a ponytail and allowed it to spill down her back, but it delights her to know that even such a minor effort is prised by her lover.

“You could style it before we go out this evening, if you wished?” she suggests. Taming the snowstorm she has permitted to fester into something she can actually experiment with has never been something she’s had the time or patience for, so a simple bun or ponytail is the dismal extent of her elegance.

Ichigo leans back with confusion settling onto the sunrise sleepiness of her complexion. “We’re going out?” she asks, and Tōshirō can hear the cogs in her mind whirring to retrace the conversation back to where such event might have been mentioned.

The captain smiles and lays her hand atop of the one that has paused in its twiddle of the ends of her hair. “Yes. I’m here to pass on a message, actually – Shiba-san asked me to inform you that you’re invited to dinner at the manor tonight, along with Isshin-san and the twins.”

“Are we talking about _Kukaku_ here?” Ichigo replies after a brief moment, her expression lifting in scandalised amusement. “Did she say ‘invited’ or are you just paraphrasing something rude?”

Tōshirō rolls her eyes at her girlfriend’s intuition, resulting in a knowing laugh from the other. “No, she might have worded that differently, but at any least, I imagine she knew I wouldn’t echo her words entirely when she asked me to let you know.”

“Probably,” Ichigo agrees, slipping her fingers back through Tōshirō’s hair. A moment of loving hush passes between them, undisturbed by the pitter-patter of the rest of the house waking for breakfast. “Wait – you’re invited too, right? Surely she hasn’t put you down as my ‘plus one’…?”

Swift to assure that her presence has also been requested at the meal, Tōshirō encourages another kiss. She hums happily into the feel of her girlfriend’s enthusiasm, although the thought of the chaos that the night will surely bring in the Shiba household eventually dissuades her from inspiring their passion into something more intimate, and she pulls away.

Ichigo whines at this, but a sharp knock at the door interrupts the sound.

“Onee-san?” Yuzu calls from the hallway, her adolescent tone still warm with the motherly nature of her youth. “Are you up?”

The responding _yeah_ from the twenty-two-year-old prompts the bedroom door to open. Ichigo certainly doesn’t squeak at the sight of her sister standing there in her pyjamas, but Yuzu definitely does. The hazelnut haired teenager squeals from the doorway, and Tōshirō can see that she jumps half a foot in the air even from her half-shrouded position, perched on the bed between Ichigo’s knees.

“Tōshirō-chan!” Yuzu cries, her words filled with delight. From further into the house, two calls of _eh – another one of my darling daughters is here?_ and _well SOMEONE kept that quiet!_ echo back at Yuzu’s happiness. The silvery captain feels herself blush despite being used to such attention from the Kurosaki family, which only prompts additional laughter from the pair of sisters gawking down at her.

(It has to be said, though, that’s Ichigo’s stare is definitely more of an enamoured ogle than anything else).

“Are you joining us for breakfast?” continues the younger sibling. She’s practically bouncing in the hallway, wholly unfazed by the captain’s unexpected presence, and Tōshirō can’t really say no to such a happy response.

“If it’s not too much of a bother,” she murmurs, smiling gratefully around the alluring figure of her girlfriend. “Thank you. We’ll be down in just a moment.”

“ _Will we?_ ” Ichigo interrupts. Her voice is smooth and thick with something enchanting that the captain has come to both appreciate and elude, depending on the circumstances. The substitute shimmies impossibly closer to her girlfriend, compelling the petite shinigami to lean back across the bed to keep her wholly in sight. Tōshirō fruitlessly wills her blush to subside as she clasps Ichigo’s hand, silently requesting support and questioning the logic to their inevitable endeavour.

“What makes you think – with a wakeup call like that – that we’re going to be ‘just a moment’?” asks the grinning woman, the fire behind her eyes promising the world.

“ _Ichigo_ ,” sighs Tōshirō – it’s the entirety of her former elegance that she can muster in the face of her girlfriend’s beautiful wrath, and it’s clearly futile in her reluctant effort in halting Ichigo before the situation gets out of hand.

The door clicks shut after Yuzu’s escape. It’s a wise decision.

That is, until the aftermath of the teenager’s hurried flight rocks the house with an ear-splitting roar of laughter:

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY DARLING GIRL IS HAVING SEX?”

Somebody thunders up the stairs.

Ichigo _launches_ herself across the room and re-slams the door in her father’s face just a fraction of a second after he tackles it open and flings himself into the room. The sound of his elbow cracking into the wall on the opposite side of the corridor is lost to Ichigo’s mortified scream as she frantically gathers up her nightdress from where it has slipped down her the length of her shoulders to tease the curves of her breasts.

“DON’T JUST BARGE IN LIKE THAT YOU IDIOT! WHAT IF I’D BEEN GETTING CHANGED?”

“ _GETTING CHANGED_? I KNOW YOU’RE CRUEL ENOUGH TO THINK I’M GETTING OLD, BUT EVEN I CAN SEE THAT THAT WASN’T _GETTING CHANGED_ –”

“THAT WASN’T _ANYTHING_ YOU GOAT-FACED WEIRDO! AND I KNOW YOU’RE ROLLING YOUR EYES AT ME EVEN IF I CAN’T SEE IT –”

“MASAKI! OUR DARLING DAUGHTER IS SO _VICIOUS_ WHEN HER SEXY TIME WITH HER GIRLFRIEND IS INTERRUP –”

Tōshirō gently lays her hands in her lap and contemplates freezing the door shut for her own peace of mind just as Ichigo wrenches it opens and storms into the hallway. Isshin’s determined stance instantly cowers into a defensive hunch at the sight of his eldest daughter, and he emits something wild and trapped in the terrified state between a roar of glee and a horrified squeal. The door _cracks_ as it swings shut behind the substitute, splintering across the sound of the ferocity that Ichigo hurls at her father. Left balanced on the edge of the bed to listen to the crashing and bellowing of her family’s morning routine, Tōshirō presses her lips together. Her teal gaze ghosts from the door to the window, watching how the entire house trembles under Ichigo’s fury.

As she ponders the destruction the Shiba home will be victim to later that day, Tōshirō smiles.

(That doesn’t mean to say she knows what she was thinking when she agreed to involve herself with a family as barbaric as this one.

Ichigo would say something like _you didn’t have a choice – dad had totally adopted you before I even entered the picture, so you’re stuck with us now_.

And she would be absolutely right).

 

 

For the most part, the day is passed by despairing to boredom and hoping to unearth some long-forgotten section of the house in which to cure the tedium of waiting around. Their Saturday endeavour doesn’t lead to the discovery of some far off world in the back of a wardrobe, although upon admitting that she doesn’t understand the practicality behind such likelihood, Tōshirō does ultimately wind up watching a movie about a land called _Narnia_ , squished into the sofa between her girlfriend and the cup of tea the substitute is holding hostage.

Humouring Ichigo is worth resigning herself to childish activities.

Plus, Yuzu’s tea is only second to her grandmother’s.

“Your grandmother does make pretty nice tea,” Ichigo agrees somewhat tentatively when the point is made, finally handing over the mug.

Tōshirō grumbles her gratitude and curls herself into the cushions as the Lucy character starts to shout something, yet the astute of the captain’s attention is focused more on watching as the ginger’s posture loses all of its previous friskiness. As Ichigo shuffles back to the other side of the sofa, Tōshirō notes that there is an undertone of guilt to her motions – it compels the substitute shinigami to bridge a gap between them; to distance herself from the nature of the conversation they have unwittingly fallen into.

It is not an action that Ichigo often submits to.

Tōshirō promptly blocks out the sound of the movie and is mindful to judge her partner’s unspoken language with an equally critical eye as she would with the words that tumble out of her mouth.

“Granny will probably be there tonight,” the captain prompts, taking a sip of her tea as if the motion can sooth the air between them back into its customary spring breeze.

“Really?” Ichigo replies. Her eyebrows furrow in echo of Tōshirō’s characteristic frown, but she doesn’t elaborate on her surprise. Instead, she simply nods as if she had known all along, and it is that – more than the accepting, _patient_ silence that follows – that encourages Tōshirō to continue.

“Granny holds the Shiba family in high regard, though it has been some time since she’s stepped foot inside of the manor. I’m sure she’s delighted to have been invited into your home.”

She feels a curious flicker of Ichigo’s reiatsu brush past her, asking for more, but the substitute demands nothing with her words. Tōshirō knows she has scarcely offered information on her past in the few years that have been dating – perhaps wrong of her to be so guarded, but Ichigo has never once pressed her for anything. Time passes slowly for her shinigami life, so the captain is certain she could use that as an excuse to explain her secrecy, but it doesn’t change the fact that she had just _simply not wanted_ to share the bitter weight of her memories with the light life of her partner. Trauma enough can be found festering in Ichigo’s childhood – Tōshirō has no reason to see why adding her own burdens will be a good idea.

She yearns to share them anyway – like a kiss, unexpected and fleeting, but one that leaves a lingering trace of longing. Tōshirō had known that the story of her upbringing would come up in conversation eventually – in pieces, or all at once, it didn’t matter – and their _experience_ with Momo’s death just those few months ago had only cemented her belief in when such time would fall upon her to shed another layer of ice off her frosted barricade. Ichigo is already privy to depths of her soul that no others have ever been close to laying their greedy eyes upon – but gluttonous Ichigo’s gaze is not; her hands are not, even as they ache for Tōshirō’s.

The captain smiles around the rim of her teacup and thinks of her grandmother. “Yes,” she assures, picturing the shine to Kotose’s azure eyes as her wrinkled skin creases with happiness. “She enjoys gossiping – I’m certain she can chat up a storm just like you Shibas.”

Ichigo laughs at her exasperated tone. It is no secret that the Shiba family can talk their way into ridiculous situations just as effortlessly as they can blab their out of them – a particularly useful talent, Tōshirō has always believed, and one she unfortunately does not share. (Although that is likely because she scarcely ever opens her mouth without contemplating every word and syllable she may consider uttering, so she rarely tumbles into awkward conversations in the first place).

“She will appreciate the company, at any least,” Tōshirō adds, and her voice falls quiet as thoughts of her late-sister weigh down the smile she is gracing to the privacy of the living room. “I should visit her more often,” she continues with a sigh, tightening her grip around the hot ceramic. The cup scalds the cool of her skin, but she doesn’t adjust her hands at the pain.

“She knows you’re busy,” Ichigo says, though they both know that’s not an excuse Tōshirō feels valid enough to use. “She’ll be happy to see you tonight.”

Tōshirō concedes with another sigh, though there is nothing but truth to her partner’s words. Her life as a captain is taxing, and though the war is behind them, there are still many ruined pieces of its chaos left to pick up. The aftermath of war is a lengthy period of mourning.

“And you – I’m sure,” she adds, sipping more of her tea. “She often mentions you in her letters.”

“Letters?” Ichigo asks, shimmying a little closer in her curiosity. The sofa dips beneath the weight of her presence, and the pillows bow to accommodate her. “You talk to Kotose about me?”

“Of course,” says the captain flatly, rolling her eyes at her girlfriend’s surprise. Ichigo’s smile widens. “She’s always asking about you – you have to be useful for _something_ after all –”

Tōshirō’s jest is cut off by Ichigo’s incredulous cry of _hey!_ The captain laughs at the exaggerated pout on her lover’s burning face and almost spills her drink down her lap as her body quakes with the delight that only Ichigo can entice.

“I’m useful for lots of things!” the ginger argues, and Tōshirō simply continues to laugh at the sheer _challenge_ in her girlfriend’s tone. Ichigo scowls, but anger is absent behind the drop to her eyebrows, and instead her lips rise into a smirk as she scratches the side of her nose. “Shut up,” she mutters fondly. “I can do plenty.”

Because her tongue won’t form the words to argue against that logic, the captain leans over and kisses her girlfriend on the cheek. The fire of Ichigo’s reiryoku buzzes happily as it melds with the chill, and though their spirit doesn’t blend into gentle puffs of smoke, Tōshirō is certain in the heat that they share.

Yuzu does not interrupt them this time, but they reluctantly untangle their bodies before they push their luck too far – just in case. Ichigo still chases her partner’s slow departure with another kiss – then two, then three – and only ceases when Tōshirō presses a hand against the unwavering eagerness of the substitute’s mouth, raising one silver eyebrow and an entertained expression.

“Spoilsport,” Ichigo mutters against the cool of the skin as her bright gaze flickers downwards at the hand muffling her complaint. She blinks a few times and then works her mouth around the fingers, entrapping one between the smirk of her ruby lips.

Tōshirō doesn’t pull away, though her other eyebrow lifts up to join the first beneath her fringe. “Childish,” she notes, adopting a tone akin to the professionalism she dons about the Tenth Division.

The laughter Ichigo endeavours to release around the fingers in her mouth is a spectacular fail, but it’s the way she decides to redeem herself by licking and sucking on her girlfriend’s skin that startles Tōshirō into wriggling away with her features blazing. The substitute shinigami roars despite the frosty glare directed towards her, and powerless to deny her girlfriend’s merriment, Tōshirō relaxes again (drying her hand on her clothing, just out of sight) and sips at the remains of her tea, mercifully still pleasant and successful in quelling her blush just moments before Karin strides in.

The raven haired teenager shuffles over, drops a hefty folder of paper in her sister’s lap, and then plonks down onto the carpet beside the sofa with a grumble. Tōshirō doesn’t catch the words, but Ichigo seems to have the ability to translate the gruff language. Her laughter fading, the substitute doesn’t ask any questions as she flicks open the folder and scans through the first few pages of what appears to be notes in Karin’s scruffy handwriting. That is, however, as far as her knowledge can apparently take her, for Ichigo then echoes her sister’s whinge as the notes progress into smaller, more intricate patterns upon the endless pages.

Curious, Tōshirō sets her empty cup aside and slides across the sofa to inspect the work.

Ichigo wordlessly angles the folder so that they can both read it and says to her younger sibling, scowling just a foot away, “I thought _you_ were the Math genius in this house?”

Karin flicks the end of the short ponytail over her shoulder and props her head up in her hand with a defeated sigh. “Yeah, well, I like the algebra and the statistics, but this is _mechanics_. I hate mechanics.”

“Mechanics?” Tōshirō queries, turning another page when Ichigo sighs and pushes back her hair in preparation for the complexity of the work before them.

“Forces and motion and stuff,” Karin supplies, shrugging helplessly. “It’s like physics, and it starts really easy – just using formula and substituting and all that – but then it gets _hard_ and it’s stupid.”

“Like Math in general,” Ichigo adds. “It gets tricky really quickly.”

“So I take it this is one of the _plenty_ things that you’re _useful_ for?” Tōshirō comments smoothly, innocently taking the folder and continuing her assessment of Karin’s efforts. Ichigo goes still beside her, the core of her reiryoku flickering in a mortified amusement at her lover’s audacity. The captain hums thoughtfully at the work, determined not to respond to the grin she can _feel_ spreading across Ichigo’s face.

The younger Kurosaki glances between the couple with a million questions ready to burst out of the seal of her lips. “Are you two having a lovers’ spat?” is the first, and then when her sister squawks a hasty denial she adds, “Does that mean Ichigo’s sleeping on the sofa tonight? I was kind of hoping to play _Final Fantasy_ till dawn you know.”

“Say one more word and I won’t help you with this,” Ichigo threatens, yanking the work from her girlfriend and waving it in front of Karin’s nose. “Especially since it’s _extra credit_ work.”

“You probably couldn’t help me anyway,” Karin retorts instantly, leaping forward to snatch the folder. Ichigo holds it out of reach with a victorious smirk and then yelps when she ends up with a lapful of a gawky eighteen-year-old.

“Elbows!” the auburn woman roars, ducking around her sister. Karin clambers over her, deliberately digging her elbows and knees into the protesting wiggle of Ichigo’s body as she clambers around for the folder. “Gah _Karin_ , you bony _little_ –”

“Oh, am I in your way? _I’m sorry_ ; you should have _said somethi_ –”

Ichigo roars and leaps to her feet, scooping the jagged, laughing angles of her sister into her arms. The folder _clunks_ to the floor, forgotten over Karin’s shriek of outrage. Ichigo hulls her sister out of the living room, tumbling half-blind around the coffee table, and roars a warning to Yuzu of their impending demolition up the stairs.

The sibling squabble continues far into the house, the soft chime of Tōshirō’s laughter ringing in its thunderous wake.

 

 

“I bet you’d look lovely with a fishtail braid,” Ichigo muses, trailing her fingers through the waves of her girlfriend’s hair, gently tugging out the snowstorm’s knots and tangles. A hairbrush sits by her thigh, jumbled with threads of fire and ice, and Tōshirō sits before her on the bed, turned away in trust of a composition maintained.

“Fishtail?” the captain replies, furrowing her eyebrows despite the expression being unperceivable to the other. Her hands rest motionless in her lap and Ichigo’s touch is gentle, though Tōshirō still presses her lips together in neutral consensus. The complexities of hairstyle fashion are beyond her – the daily battle she endures with the blizzard atop her complexion is for practicality, not pleasure.

Ichigo hums and gathers the silvery hair together, marvelling at the length as it slips through her fingers; a winter’s snowfall in her hands. “Let me try it?”

Tōshirō hardly takes a second before conceding. It had been she, after all, who had invited her girlfriend to indulge herself. Moreover, she does enjoy humouring her feminine traits from time to time. (Her strenuous office hours scarcely offer such opportunity, unfortunately). Being around her partner is a welcome break to upholding her professional virility, so Tōshirō cannot really fault their pastimes.

And perhaps most importantly, it brings Ichigo happiness.

“Oh my god Tōshirō,” the substitute exclaims a few minutes later, her ministrations pausing long enough for the captain to tilt her head back in question. “You need to let me give you a crown braid!”

Tōshirō opens her mouth to ask if the hairdo looks as pretentious as it sounds, but Ichigo continues with her rambling; a hundred-mile-an-hour delight. “I haven’t done one for _ages_ but you’d _actually look_ –”

 _What_ , the captain is not privy to hear. The young human is already unravelling the fishtail and scrabbling around blindly for the brush; Tōshirō passes it to her without a word, though her fingers stray over her girlfriend’s hand, asking when her expression cannot.

Ichigo shuffles sideways along the bed and beams down at the awaiting confusion in the teal eyes. “You like your hair up, don’t you?” she goes on, parting the snowstorm into two and willing it to quell with a gentle stroke of the hairbrush. “Christ, can I remember how to Dutch braid? No sit still, you’ll love this style. I’ll _even leave_ your fringe alone.”

“I didn’t realise there were so many different ways of braiding,” Tōshirō comments for the lack of anything more proficient to say in the face of Ichigo’s exuberance. She rolls her eyes at the quip about her fringe, but cannot deny that she has been known to be protective ( _obsessed_ , Matsumoto would laugh) over that aspect of her hairstyle. (She _likes_ her fringe).

“Oh yeah – you have no idea.” Ichigo laughs and sits a little closer, her thigh pressing up against the sharp to Tōshirō’s hip. She weaves the captain’s hair as she speaks as if the motion is natural, though her gaze is transfixed upon her efforts, determined and concentrated. “French plaits are my favourite to do just because Yuzu loves them, and they’re difficult to do by yourself, so we used to sit on the sofa and watch some crap on TV and I’d just spend hours doing all these different styles for her. Karin wasn’t interested but she’d watch and sometimes I’d try to teach her but she hasn’t got the fingers for it – takes after dad like that.

“Fishtails are great but it took me ages to get my head around them – when my hair was longer, when I was a kid, I would just practice and practice on myself until I got it right, then I’d braid Yuzu’s hair perfectly and she was always so impressed. Crown braids are tough though – what I’m doing now – or this one is, anyway. There’s probably easier ways of doing them, but where’s the fun in that? Braiding upwards can be a right pain, but I could teach you, if you wanted. This is pretty tidy so you could wear it to the office or on patrol – definitely on patrol. I know you don’t like having loose hair when you’re sparring – err – why are you looking at me like that?”

Having been unaware that she had been staring at the bubbly women sitting beside her, Tōshirō promptly averts her gaze. Composing her semblance back into her usual expression of attentiveness, the wintry captain cools her blush before it can combust and then sets to reassure her partner:

 “I’m sorry; it’s just that – I didn’t think you’d be the type to have an interest in hairstyling.”

“Oh,” says Ichigo, and the expression that passes across her face is difficult to interpret. “Um… Do you mind...?”

Some of the strands slip out of her hand; the braid begins to unravel, spilling down Tōshirō’s neck like melting snow.

“You mistake me,” the captain swiftly corrects, reaching to catch the untangled ends. “I didn’t mean that as a criticism. And no, I don’t mind at all.”

 _Kiss me_ , Tōshirō wants to add, but she’s not spontaneous enough to ask as she watches Ichigo gather up the loose strands and return to the delicate braid, smiling with her goofy grin all the while. So, she instead yields to the attentions without further word, contemplating idly that Ichigo’s love for having her hair played with is wholly understandable. Tōshirō smiles to herself at that thought, picturing her girlfriend’s amusement and the way her fire soothes when fingers trace amid the firestorm of her hair. Ichigo’s hair is short but no more obedient than Tōshirō’s own, and the dawning of the substitute’s awareness in the glow of the morning is the perfect time to witness the ignition of the marmalade tangle – scruffy, unmanageable, and entirely beautiful.

(But then, Ichigo has never been anything less than beautiful).

“Thank you,” Tōshirō says.

It’s not quite _kiss me please_ , but Ichigo leans down and whispers hot mutterings of affection into the captain’s cheek all the same.

 

 

“ _Isshin_!” is the drawn-out cry that Kukaku greets them with when she opens the door. Her tone is wild and happy, but there’s a glint to her eyes that Tōshirō immediately recognises – hereditary and dangerous. It’s one she had seen on Ichigo’s face that very morning, lunging to throw her father out of her bedroom.

The rest of the Kurosaki family can clearly identify the look too, for Karin and Ichigo both wisely dive out of the way of Kukaku’s approaching stampede, and even Yuzu doesn’t try to pacify the situation with anything more than a rapid “Kukaku-nee-san!” as the Shiba thunders towards them.

For his part, Isshin squeals and holds up his hands in surrender, knowing better than to attempt a futile escape. Kukaku twists his collar into her hand and hulls him into the main Shiba complex, roaring about _blubbering oafs_ and how _we haven’t seen you in MONTHS, and you call yourself a Shiba!_

Isshin’s cries of terror are ignored by his niece.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Yuzu asks, glancing around to see if anybody is going to help Isshin. “I’m not sure Ishida-san would be thrilled if dad dies.”

“What?” Ichigo blurts, disbelieving. Her laugh is so abrupt that Tōshirō nearly startles beside her. “Ryuuken would be _delighted_.”

“He’d have to adopt us,” Karin deadpans.

Ichigo’s consideration of what her life would be like in the Ishida family household hardly takes a beat; “Well thank god I’m a legal adult –”

“ _My children_!” Isshin wails from inside the house, only to be cut off by a scathing comment from the one-armed Shiba and whatever horrendous expression she is wielding to bully him.

Tōshirō glances between the three Kurosaki siblings, wondering silently how they will take their father’s looming annihilation. Yuzu is twiddling with the edge of her dress, a motion suggesting she is having to restrain her desire to step into the fight, but she seems to be the only one. Absentmindedly, Ichigo scratches an itch on her neck. Karin appears wholeheartedly delighted.

“I take back what I said about joining the police force,” the raven-haired teenager says as the sounds of a violent scuffle amplify. “I want to be like Kukaku-nee-san after I graduate.”

Kukaku cackles manically in a thorough approval, as if she can hear their conversation from within the Shiba labyrinth. Tōshirō is almost certain that she can – there’s an extraordinarily complex sensory kido lining the front door, after all.

“She’s taking her sweet time about it though,” Ichigo complains, scowling at the open door. “Oi Kukaku-san!” she hollers, cupping her mouth to intensify her burning irritation. “Hurry up and get your arse out here to play host!”

In most circumstances, Tōshirō would be appalled at the sheer lack of propriety, but she has grown accustomed to the manner in which the Shiba family communicate. The rashness that defines every Shiba (no matter how much or how little) burns brightest in the family when they are gathered for events such as this. Ichigo, especially, is relaxed in her cousins’ home, and feels able to let the extravagance of her personality shine through.

“Good to see you too,” Kukaku snipes when she (temporarily) finishes murdering Isshin and returns. She ruffles the twins’ hair, exchanges a polite greeting with Tōshirō, and then turns something predatory and wicked onto Ichigo.

Ichigo responds in kind; a Shiba semantic, clearly. “Getting slow in your old age,” she teases, her body tensing up as if preparing for a fight.

Tōshirō rolls her eyes. Wisely, she beckons the twins to escape inside just before Ichigo and Kukaku – the epitome of noble, sophisticated women, really – pounce on each other, Kukaku grappling the cursing ginger into a daunting headlock.

“Old?” the one-armed Shiba yells as the substitute tries to wiggle her way out of the hold. “I’ll show you _old_ , you spry little…”

The captain smiles and leaves her girlfriend to her fate. Ichigo deserves whatever is coming to her.

The volume of their banter dims as Tōshirō enters the far dining room, though it is swiftly replaced by Yuzu’s motherly fussing and Karin’s snickers as the defeated form of Isshin is revealed, hunched over the table. He appears none the worse for wear, but he laughs nervously and scratches his neck much in the same way his eldest daughter does when embarrassed. Yuzu checks him over anyway, fluttering around him with a faintest hint of a scowl. It serves as ample punishment for causing mayhem, and Tōshirō knows Ichigo will be subject to the same cruelty once (if) she survives her scuffle with Kukaku.

Judging by the yelling from outside, it’s hard to predict the outcome of the brawl. Deciding it’s probably safer to leave the family to finish their welcomes, Tōshirō excuses herself and sets off towards the kitchen. The house quietens as distance builds between them, but the hallways are no less inhabited as the captain soon discovers, turning a corner and almost stepping straight into Shiroganehiko’s path. The well-dressed manner of his shadow seems to swallow the petite angles of her more slender figure, but hardly a second passes before the assistant is sidestepping her, offering a brief bow.

“Captain Hitsugaya,” he greets as she returns the formality. “Are you in need of assistance?”

“No thank you,” Tōshirō replies, sparing a moment to wonder if the next corner will reveal Koganehiko’s equally towering figure. “I apologise if I inconvenienced you.”

She doesn’t mention her target destination, but the way he raises his dark eyebrows into something just slightly less than a scowl suggests he has an idea as to her intentions.

Although, the fact that they have this confrontation every time she visits is a rather helping clue.

“Guests do not serve the refreshments,” Shiroganehiko informs her, his voice as gruff as his posture; arms crossed, back rigid. If Tōshirō had anything less than a dragon inside of her soul it would distress her, but instead she straightens up and lets the fierce politeness of her tongue do the work.

“I’m not a guest,” she states, lifting her expression to encourage him to agree. She’s not lying by any means – Ichigo would say she is _more than a guest_ ; that’s she _family_ , but Tōshirō often feels _less_ than that in the boisterous exuberance of this home.

(She’s just the quiet little freak watching the kettle boil while her (loving, lonely) grandmother shares tea with their elderly neighbours).

(Her grandmother always pours her a cup to include her, but she only drinks it because it would be wasteful not to. The neighbours already think she’s a waste).

“I’m happy to help,” Tōshirō adds before the assistant can argue. Growing up in her childhood home has taught her to always lend a hand; everybody was required to pitch in with dinner preparations, tendering the garden, shopping, cleaning, and so forth. As a captain, it is her _job_ to help her officers make the best use of their skills. Even in her girlfriend’s flat in Fukuoka, she consistently spends the evenings making dinner with whoever has pulled the short straw.

She isn’t a social butterfly. Organising behind the scenes – so to speak – gives her something to occupy her time in the large gatherings – at least until everyone has settled in and the initiate period of awkwardness has passed.

“The thought is appreciated,” says Shiroganehiko, as he _always_ does when the captain tries to do his job for him. (It would be a game between them except they’re not playing by the same rules). “But I’m certain that your grandmother will be arriving shortly.”

“All the more reason to help out, yeah?” Ichigo notes as she strides up the hallway, hiking the grace of her kimono above her ankles lest she trample all over it in her gangly haste. No matter what she wears she never ceases to be stunning, though the long trails of the kimono and the grand weight of the pleats do provide a challenge. Used to jeans and short and no small amount of jumpers, Ichigo can honestly be described as _awkward_ in the formal attire. Yet the substitute is a quick learner, if nothing else, and the exponential rate of her growth extends to overcoming even the simplest tasks; kimonos and heels alike.

(Still, Tōshirō thinks the whole thing is endearing. Put Ichigo in a battle and she'll dance her way out. Put her in a kimono and she'll trip through every other doorway).

Shiroganehiko looks taken aback at Ichigo’s abrupt appearance (or as taken aback as a man wearing a statue’s expression can), but he does not sigh or grumble as Tōshirō is certain he wishes to. The wintry captain turns away from him to greet her partner with a neutral expression, though the minute twitch to her eyebrows reveals her confusion with Ichigo’s unexpected entrance. In the handful of times that Tōshirō has slipped away to make use of herself in the Shiba household, the fiery shinigami has never once followed her or inquired as to where she had gone.

As the substitute steps into the conversation and waves off Shiroganehiko’s resulting bow, Tōshirō notes that the firm press of Ichigo’s lips is swiftly replaced with amusement and relief. She realises then (torn between how she should feel about it) that _concern_ had prompted Ichigo to leave her family and go looking for her.

(Tōshirō is entirely capable to handling herself and her girlfriend’s actions would be insulting if she didn’t know that Ichigo only ever functions on good intentions).

“Come on – kitchen’s this way,” Ichigo says, her hand finding Tōshirō’s in the boundlessness of their attire. She grasps the small hand loosely, as if doubting her welcome, but Tōshirō allows the affection and Shiroganehiko wouldn’t dare ask them to part.

Tōshirō rolls her eyes but permits Ichigo to lead on.

Side-by-side they walk, locked together in their stride.

 

 

“So,” says the substitute, catching her partner’s eye as she passes down the first tea cup. “This is where you keep running off to.”

Tōshirō sets the cup with the tea pot, delicately painted with cherry blossoms and boiling to the brim with tea, and waits for Ichigo to remove the laughter from her tone.

“I had wondered,” the ginger continues from where she’s knelt on the counter, rummaging through the cupboards with a grin. “You always seemed to return with Shiroganehiko or Koganehiko trotting along behind.”

Doubtful about the _trotting_ image but unable to deny the truth of the rest of the statement, the captain gives a little sigh. Part of her is amused to realise that Ichigo (hopelessly dopey but unexpectedly bright) _has_ been paying attention, but the other part is reluctant to engage in this topic of conversation. It’s not that Tōshirō is ashamed of her behaviour, but rather that she knows her girlfriend will immediately declare that _you’re family, Tōshirō, not a servant_ and she’s been told similar many times before. This scolding will then likely be followed with something akin to a laughed _but whatever floats your boat_ , which will only put them back at square one of the discussion – _not_ , Tōshirō reminds herself as Ichigo pauses her search, _that her affinity for chores is a problem_.

“Hey Tōsh, you okay?”

The captain blinks at the question, wondering what right Ichigo has to ask that when _she’s_ the one with the kitchen counter bruising her knees, head throbbing from its encounter with the cupboard door, and back bent awkwardly to reach the end of the shelves.

“Fine,” Tōshirō replies.

Ichigo’s expression flattens and she shrugs before resuming her work. A cringe twists its way through the captain’s demeanour – her partner’s disappointment isn’t subtle enough to miss, and the icy shinigami is acutely aware of her mistake.

“I didn’t mean to be short,” she offers, twiddling with the sleeve of her kimono. Her fringe is the usual victim to her frustrations, but if nothing else about the evening passes smoothly, Tōshirō would like the crown, painstakingly braided upon her head, to remain untouched and perfect.

Abrupt laughter is not the response to her apology that Tōshirō had expected, but it escapes from Ichigo’s mouth in a breathless rush; brief and brimming with joy.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” the substitute explains, hanging onto the cupboard for balance. Words continue to bubble into giggles even as she attempts to calm herself; her expression is seriousness split with mirth, mirroring the smile Tōshirō cannot fight. “It’s just – you could’ve – _didn’t mean to be so short_ oh my god –”

It takes the prodigious captain a second to understand.

“ _Honestly_ ,” Tōshirō says. Burying her hands in her sleeves, she glowers up at her girlfriend as her appropriately dubbed ‘you’re unbelievable’ look of disdain settles onto her complexion. It’s an expression she has developed just for her lover’s antics, though a less kind variant has been known to terrorise unruly officers of all unfortunate divisions.

Ichigo curses upon noticing it yet her laughter endures.

Tōshirō really cannot say she minds.

They eventually succeed in collecting enough cups and plates to satisfy the whole family, although there is a fleeting moment of fright when Ichigo elbows the last of the cherry blossom china and scarcely whirls in time to rescue it from smashing against the counter. Thus Tōshirō is volunteered to carry the tray back to the awaiting Shibas; a wise decision, though the captain is certain she doesn’t imagine Shiroganehiko’s tight expression as she passes. Ichigo kisses her cheek and tells her the assistants are _sticks in the mud_ so there’s nothing to be worried about. Tōshirō isn’t entirely convinced, but she refrains from mentioning it as they venture back.

“There you are!” Kukaku hollers when they re-enter the sitting area. She beckons them over and laughs triumphantly. “What did I tell you? Probably went off to snog!”

“Tea’s an odd thing to gain from kissing,” Karin mutters, swiftly taking the teapot and pouring herself a cup before Tōshirō can do it. “It almost suggests you’re doing it wrong.”

“Unless you happen to _like_ tea,” Ichigo defends, flopping down at the table next to Yuzu. The cups are passed around until all but two are claimed; in the space between Kukaku and Tōshirō, they are left to cool for the Ganju and Kotose’s pending arrival.

Chatter continues between the family and not one mention of dinner is made. They are content with each other’s company; their bodies are satisfied with jokes and laughter. Conversation varies across the table, and Tōshirō finds herself slipping in and out of complementary discussions with ease now that the atmosphere has started to settle. Eventually her grandmother arrives with Ganju in tow, the loud-mouthed Shiba oddly polite in his role as a guide, and their presence induces a second round of tea about the table.

The Shibas at the table call happy greetings to the elderly soul, though Tōshirō rises to welcome her grandmother with a kiss. The wrinkles on Kotose’s round face stretch with her smile, and the ageless grace of her hands delight in inspecting the thick twists of snow braided around her granddaughter’s crown.

“You look beautiful, Tōshirō.”

Somebody _awws_.

“You can thank Ichigo for that,” Tōshirō replies, guiding her grandmother to the table. Kotose smiles and takes a moment to thank the auburn woman as she passes; Ichigo mirrors her expression and leans into the fleeting kiss, offering her own into Kotose’s cheek.

More tea is served. Karin and Yuzu take the opportunity to introduce themselves to the littler Hitsugaya, both overjoyed to be able to finally do so.

“Does Tōshirō-chan get her temper from you?” Yuzu asks, the first of a million questions she and her twin undoubtedly have prepared for this meeting.

There is laughter from all across the table. “Oh, perhaps,” Kotose says, sounding just as cryptic and amused as Tōshirō often does. “She definitely has my sense of humour.”

“Your grandmother doesn’t have a sarcastic bone in her body,” Ichigo whispers to her partner, ducking her face to hide her incredulous expression from the group. “…Does she?”

“When you get to my age, Ichigo, you will find that you will have refined your subtly to a degree almost beyond comprehension,” says Kotose, winking as the ginger jolts back, her blush admitting her guilt.

Tōshirō pats her partner’s knee, but it isn’t sympathy that drives the motion. The captain sips her tea and doesn’t bother to hide the triumph in her smile; beside her, Kotose mirrors the action, and there’s a collective _huh_ of understanding from the opposite side of the table.

Dinner is served shortly after. Meat, rice, fish, and more are laid across the table, and there’s alcohol enough to satisfy them all and then some. The same cannot quite be said for the food as the Shibas battle their way across the table and gain victory over pork slices, but Tōshirō has seen the kitchens ablaze with might and she knows no soul in his household will ever leave hungry.

It is a far cry from Junrinan.

It is an even further one from Okubo.

She slips a piece of beef into her mouth and sucks on the chopsticks, unable to chew her lip. Laughter bounds around the table, bouncing from seat to seat. The sound appeases the captain’s uneasy thoughts; the past, behind her, is insignificant to the present joy at the heart of the Shiba household. Though dark experiences have shaped her, Tōshirō knows not to dwell on the flickers of shadow buried deep inside her memory.

That doesn’t mean it is easy to forget.

Ichigo feasts beside the captain, bantering laughter and muttering teases under her breath. Isshin recounts a wild (likely exaggerated) story that prompts disbelieving groans from his three children and knowing eye rolls from his niece and nephew. On Tōshirō’s other side, Kotose listens attentively, feeling no need to vastly contribute to the conversation. Because of this, when the wintry captain ceases to eat and instead lowers her chopsticks in pretence of an appetite filled, Kotose’s eyes are the first (and only) pair to turn and question the change.

Her reiryoku perfectly balanced within her, Tōshirō smooths a lie across her expression. The façade hides the discomforting remnants of her memories as she attempts to push them away, but Okubo is thick, black mucus of torment at the back of her mind. No matter how hard she tries to wipe them away, the memories cling onto her consciousness with sticky, viscous claws; black against white, tar staining snow.

Her stomach gurgles and churns.

Tōshirō would say sickness threatens her, but then she’s always been sick, hasn’t she?

There’s no illness quite like the plague of being a rat on the street, fighting back hunger with dirt; a delicacy of the desperate.

(She had been ingesting rubbish long before the Academy shoved textbooks under her nose and lectured her about _justice_ ).

“Tōshirō dear, would it terribly bother you to show me to the restroom?” asks Kotose, and Tōshirō turns as her grandmother lays a hand atop hers. The wrinkled smile the elderly lady greets her surprise with seems genuine enough, but as the captain concedes and excuses them both from the table, she knows it is a disguise as impenetrable as her own.

Kotose clasps their hands together and allows herself to be led out of the room and down the corridor. They pass the bathroom without a word and continue into the garden, Tōshirō never once doubting where her grandmother truly wishes to go. They may not be biologically related, but their souls resonate with countless similarities. Tōshirō envisions she will age into a smaller, slightly less beautiful version of her grandmother, although Kotose consistently amends the latter part (much to the captain’s embarrassment).

Dusk has begun to fall when they step outside. Violet waves of a tide across the sky, darkness greets the two Hitsugayas as it lays down to rest atop the evening sun. Tōshirō guides her grandmother towards the horizon, their arms linked together and their shoulders close as the chill settles upon them. The captain has trekked the gardens numerous times before – day and night – so she tours Kotose around her favourite areas before the need to converse overwhelms them.

Foliage glows about them. Kotose glows back, joyed at the sight of the garden’s complexity and vibrancy. Junrinan’s soil is tired – only the oldest, bravest trees and shrubs find their way along the streets. Flowers are scarce (or expensive) and often fall victim to childish curiosity and mishaps. Here, in the Shiba household, they can bloom as they wish – as they truly should.

Kotose stops their pace just shy of the pond and runs her fingers over the nearest flower; coloured a pink so pale it is almost white, the petals of the camellia kiss the elder’s skin.

“I almost named you _Tsubaki_ ,” she muses, smiling at the little flower.

The camellia says nothing, but Tōshirō mirrors her grandmother and offers the elegant blossom a careful touch. “I like _Tōshirō_ better,” the captain admits. “It’s less…”

“Flowery?” Kotose laughs, patting her granddaughter in much the same fashion that she pets the camellia. “Yes, I understand what you mean. I like _Tōshirō_ better as well, and it definitely suits you. I never once thought you were delicate, not even…”

She trails off. Her hand drops away from the flower and Tōshirō grasps it between her own, slotting their fingers together.

“I would have liked any name you gave me,” the snowy woman mutters, glancing over at the last of the sunlight lingering through the trees to avoid witnessing Kotose’s ensuing expression. “Anybody was better than nobody.”

Wind whispers through their silence. The camellias sway an uncertain dance. Far off into the distance the sun yawns away its golden radiance, and dawning ever closer through the Shiba household, a smaller, no less grand sunlight being journeys into the garden. Kotose doesn’t react as spiritual flames reach across the grass, but Tōshirō sighs – happy, as always, but wound tight with apprehension – as Ichigo steps away from the house and –

Stops. Hesitates. Stays back.

“Oh _honestly_ ,” grumbles the captain, throwing exasperation over her shoulder. “You can come over; I’m not going to bite.”

Beside the glowering shinigami, Kotose startles and turns just as Ichigo treads over, hands stuffed into the oversized pockets of her kimono. The substitute is quiet as she steps close, her silence perceiving the mood between the elder and her granddaughter. In return, Tōshirō says nothing as her partner’s presence slots in behind her; hands unravelling from pleats to rest upon the captain’s stomach, Ichigo holds her loosely. Welcoming the motion, Tōshirō tilts her head back in question just as Ichigo leans forward – they bump briefly, misjudging intentions, before the substitute settles her chin down atop the braided crown of frost, tucking her slighter lover beneath her.

Kotose lets her amusement be known, but Tōshirō doesn’t smile.

“I apologise for disturbing your dinner,” the captain says, wondering if their abrupt departure and lack of return had troubled any of the family. She will have to assure Kukaku that her ability as host is undeniable when they venture back inside. An apology probably won’t go amiss either, and Tōshirō squashes down a guilty sigh.

Conversely, Ichigo huffs the comment away and presses her nose into her lover’s hair. “There’s not much to see out here,” she notes, as if that is enough to encourage the wandering duo back inside.

Tōshirō tuts. “That’s because it’s _dark_ now.”

“Funnily enough, I had noticed.”

“So had I. That didn’t stop you from making a pointless comment though, did it?”

Ichigo’s laughter rings with triumph at that comment. Tōshirō doesn’t have to ask why – she’s more relaxed now, the tension in her shoulders unwound, and the captain knows it’s a direct result of her girlfriend’s infectious personality. There’s no denying that Ichigo brings out the best of her. Tōshirō used to be characterised by icy regimes and a clipping, sarcastic tone, and though those are still fundamental aspects of how she organises her division, there is a clearer divide between her _work_ and _home_ lives now.

Before, people thought she never wore anything but her haori.

(For the most part, they would have been correct in that assumption).

Now, people often catch her in her office without her haori on, although that’s usually because Ichigo’s involved – and it has to be said that Ichigo’s _involvement_ is certainly something that shouldn’t take place in an office.

(Tōshirō stresses this. Frequently).

(Afterwards of course).

“You coming back inside?” the substitute asks, the query straightforward with the frankness that distinguishes her. She presses a kiss into Tōshirō’s neck and then mumbles almost guiltily when Kotose reminds them of her presence by cooing.

“Perhaps,” says the captain, shrugging Ichigo’s lips away. “Granny and I were just… talking.”

Wary teal flickers through the darkness and then disappears as a heavy sigh overcomes her. The hands upon her stomach flex soothingly, although Ichigo doesn’t bend down for another kiss. Tōshirō frowns, reluctant to indulge in the affection. The mood over them is as weighty as the nightfall, and she knows only admittances of truth will lift it. _A burden shared is a burden halved_ as her grandmother used to say, and as Tōshirō opens her eyes to wrinkles of a wise, encouraging expression, she can still hear Kotose’s words.

“Am I interrupting?” her girlfriend asks from over her shoulder. Tōshirō goes to assure Ichigo that her presence is wholly welcome, but Kotose, stepping forward, beats her to it.

“No dear, it’s alright,” says the elderly woman, laying a hand upon Ichigo’s.  “I was just thinking of returning for another cup of tea. It’s getting a little chilly out here, after all, and I think Tōshirō wants to talk to you about something.”

She smiles up at the ginger woman and then pecks her granddaughter’s cheek. The kiss is warm despite how cold Kotose’s lips appear, threatening to crack in the evening temperature.

Tōshirō thanks her quietly and watches her shuffle back towards the light of the house, holding her kimono up to save it from ruin. In the air that Kotose has left behind, the camellias sway and reach for the elder, shivering in the cold. Tōshirō glances at their beauty and wonders, just briefly, what her life would have been like had she not been fortunate enough to meet Kotose Hitsugaya when she had.

What would have she become, if she hadn’t become Tōshirō Hitsugaya?

“What an awful question,” she mutters to herself, shaking her head to cast the thought away. Her life may have traversed such a path had her circumstances been less fortunate. Or more fortunate, the captain supposes, but that is something even _less_ appealing to dwell on. Although Tōshirō prides herself in the steadfast control she holds over her life, which district she had awoken in is lone factor that she could have never changed. Okubo had been decided for her – by chance or as a direct result of some omnipotent judgment, Tōshirō doesn’t know.

(She likes to think that her human life had deserved to enter a lower district. It’s either that or accepting that the nameless character that defines her was one cruel enough to sanction eternal punishment in the seventy-seventh district).

(It may be Soul Society, but it’s only three districts from Hell).

The ice-eyed woman figures that no opportunity as seamless as this to disclose her past to Ichigo will ever present itself again, so she wonders how to begin.

Ichigo waits.

Tōshirō sighs.

“I didn’t spend my whole childhood in Junrinan; although that is where my file will quote I hail from. I actually awoke in _Okubo_ , West Rukongai’s seventy-seventh district. I think I was there for a few years, but my memory of the place is… jumbled at best.”

“Seventy-seventh?” Ichigo mumbles, pressing her cheek back into the top of Tōshirō’s crown. “Isn’t that near where Rukia and Renji are from?”

“I’ll admit that I don’t know where Kuchiki-san and Lieutenant Abarai are from, but as there are four areas of the Seireitei with the same numbering system, they may have resided in one of those – North, for example,” the captain clarifies, hearing her partner hum thoughtfully. “Districts with high numbers are further away from the Seireitei, and with distance the power of the shinigami’s laws and regulations decreases.”

“…Kenpachi’s from a really far district, isn’t he?”

“North Rukongai’s eightieth district, yes. It’s as far as one can get,” Tōshirō explains, and Ichigo’s reiatsu blazes at those words; the garden flashes with fire, and the camellias tremble in their dance and shrink away. Unsurprised, the wintry shinigami breathes out. Her own stormy essence shivers and cools the air crackling around them.

Ichigo shudders but say nothing to explain herself.

Nothing needs to be said.

“What I do remember most about Okubo is the hunger. Most souls that enter the Soul Society after konsō don’t have enough reiryoku to need food to sustain them, so they only eat for comfort and routine, rather than to replenish their reiryoku levels as shinigami do. Of course, this means that only those who can grow or buy food can attain it, and in the higher districts, this is the rich. No matter how much I wanted it, food was scarce. I should have travelled to some of the lower districts – where food is more accessible – but I suppose it’s easy to say that retrospectively. For all I knew, the whole of the Soul Society was just like the streets I was already living in.”

Most of the Rukongai is. Only the first twenty districts are frequented by shinigami patrols and upheld by morality. Beyond that, lawful systems rapidly begin to decay until one ends up with districts like Okubo, where one’s life is only worth as much as the blood on their hands.

Ichigo pulls herself away, untangling them only so far as to lock their fingers together. “Come on,” she says, tugging Tōshirō into a stroll. “I can’t stand here.”

Abiding, the captain adjusts her pace to match. Their hands remain clasped; their bodies are endlessly one as they walk side-by-side. At the abrupt change to their conversation, Tōshirō asks if they should return inside. Ichigo shakes her head and prompts her to continue – so, gauging her partner’s fluctuating reiryoku, the captain does;

“Okubo was vile. It was dangerous. I never left, despite… everything. I considered it – frequently – but I never acted upon my thoughts.”

People don’t leave Okubo, not on their own volition. The buildings may be brittle, the streets may be ruptured, and the skies may weep days upon days of blood, but Okubo is a labyrinth of empty faces and endless alleyways. It is impossible to find your own way out. Only through the help of others – their generosity, as sharp as blades and as wicked as their smiles – can one expect to escape the rubble of the maze their life has spiralled down into.

Tōshirō had expected to escape. Everyone in Okubo expected to escape at some point.

She hadn’t expected to survive it.

“Junrinan was a haven in comparison. In Okubo, everybody lived for himself. If you fought the norm – intentionally or not – you were considered easy pickings for those who negotiate with blood. Weapons were accessible – effortlessly accessible in Okubo. In Junrinan, there are only pebbles to hurl.”

And words, she thinks, but words have always hurt even if you don’t understand what they mean.

As she pauses in her thoughts, fingertips take the time to glide across her skin, following blue trails of ice down the captain’s jaw. Tōshirō simply tilts her head to accommodate Ichigo’s movements, and the touch continues to trace along down her neck.

“Pebbles are bad enough,” Ichigo mumbles, her voice as gentle as the exploration of her skin against Tōshirō’s; the tiny bumps of scars across the captain’s shoulders. She takes her time with the largest mark of battle, the one slicing almost from shoulder to shoulder with jagged intentions. Her fingertips hesitate, as if they have never loved this particular blemish in all their moments of intimacy, but eventually trail questions along it just the same.

“You told me you got this when you were young.”

The captain inclines her head. “I did.”

Ichigo’s reply is quiet as she drops her hand away and reclaims her partner’s. “Funny looking pebble,” she notes, and the muttering brings a smile onto Tōshirō’s face.

“Yes, I do recall that it was an oddly knife-shaped one. It even had a hilt.”

“Never seen a pebble like that,” Ichigo says, playing along. Neither of them is smiling however, and as the moon finally rises from its rest and untucks the blanketing clouds about it, the last of the sun’s violet evening darkens into black. The wind ushers them to return inside, but Ichigo, knowing there is more to say, prompts another lap of gardens.

Tōshirō appreciates the humour. She wants to continue the banter and forget why they’re really out here, but as they brush past the camellias again and Ichigo reaches down to pat one, sadness surges up inside of her.

“I’m glad,” Tōshirō whispers, even though it sounds naïve on her tongue. Ichigo is accustomed to the feel of a sword in her hand and across her skin, but she has never been truly defenceless in her time in Soul Society. She has never been thrown around in the dirt and forced to use her hands, her nails, her body, and her teeth to keep herself alive because there is nothing else for her to use. She has never been backed into a corner and beaten so close to death that even the river she’s thrown in refuses to accept such a ghastly and deformed offering.

And Tōshirō is grateful.

“I ended up in Junrinan by luck more than anything. I had an _unfortunate_ encounter with some men – some _pebbles_ ,” she corrects, rolling her eyes as Ichigo wheezes out a startled laugh. “I was young and small and I was an easy target, I suppose. I don’t remember much about what happened.”

It’s true. There was blood, pain, and fear, but she’s certain that she spent her entire time sneaking about Okubo unsuccessfully dissociating herself with that.

She shrugs to suggest that it doesn’t matter to her now. It’s a lie, but one Tōshirō feels better for expressing. She can say little about her life in Okubo except the blunt, horrible truth. It’s only redeeming factor is her consequent arrival in Junrinan, and her awakening to grandmotherly eyes above a grandmotherly smile.

“I ended up in the river. I wonder if Hyorinmaru’s intervention is the only reason I didn’t die,” the captain muses, more to herself than her partner or zanpakuto, but Ichigo’s reiryoku reveals her unease, and Hyorinmaru rumbles from the depths of their soul. An agreement, perhaps. Tōshirō cannot be certain. Memories of her early interactions with her zanpakuto are just as scarce as those of Okubo, but the captain has a feeling that Hyorinmaru has been guarding her since her awakening in the Rukongai. The almighty dragon has neither confirmed nor denied that assumption in all their years together.

“The water swept me to the first district – or, I assume it did. I can’t recall much. Granny found me and took me in, but I – I was sick for a long time and slept the days away. I got better, but it took some time. Still, they were kind to me – Granny and Momo – although I wasn’t always courteous in turn.”

“What a surprise,” Ichigo mumbles.

Tōshirō cannot tell if the comment is supposed to be an attempt at lifting the mood or not, so she merely quirks her eyebrows and waits for her girlfriend to elaborate.

“No it’s okay,” Ichigo says instead, shaking her head. “I was just – I mean – they must have expected you to be defensive? Even if they didn’t know what district you were from, your… injuries would have suggested enough. People don’t just bounce back from that sort of thing.”

Conceding, Tōshirō inclined her head. Ichigo’s expression is difficult to interpret through the darkness, but the squeeze her hand receives is answer enough.

“ _Defensive_ is understating it a bit,” the captain goes on, casting away the lingering thoughts of Okubo to think of Junrinan instead. “But yes, they were patient with me. I imagine there were times when they regretted taking me in –”

“What? No. I doubt that –”

“– because my behaviour wasn’t easy to deal with, I’m sure – I followed Granny around for _months_ in absolute silence, Ichigo. I helped with the cooking and the cleaning but I wouldn’t verbally answer any of their questions. It took me a long time to trust them. Even when Granny gave me a name I was still wary.”

“A _name_?” Ichigo blurts, and about them, her reiatsu flares in a thunderous spark. The slumbering life of the garden startles and shields away from the blackened wisps of her fury, and even Tōshirō jumps a fraction, having been absorbed in her reminiscence. “You didn’t –?”

“Oi, lovebirds! Are you going to join us sometime tonight?”

Something in the garden _cracks_ under the force of Ichigo’s reiatsu at the call. Turning towards the manor, Tōshirō notes Kukaku’s disapproving posture and scowl and rubs her girlfriend’s hand, trying to calm her. Hoping that nothing valuable has broken, the captain begins to steer their pace in the direction of Kukaku’s imposing silhouette, but one step towards the building results in a sharp tug on her arm.

“ _Tōshirō?_ ”

Brown eyes are wide and concerned. The wintry shinigami throws her mind back and realises exactly how she had ended their conversation. Ichigo’s reaction is a predictable one, yet the dismay still pulls at Tōshirō’s heartstrings. Keen to mollify her partner’s fiery reiatsu, Tōshirō kisses the back of Ichigo’s knuckles and is pleased to see that the ginger woman still flusters despite her worry.

“I worked hard to gain my position as a captain,” she explains, watching Ichigo nod in understanding. They’ve already touched upon this topic before, but never in relation to how Okubo has influenced her. “I insist that people address me as _Captain Hitsugaya_ because I want my efforts to be worthwhile, but… that isn’t the only reason.”

No more is said on the matter, but Ichigo’s reiatsu soothes into a melancholy dimness of its usual flare anyway. The substitute reaches up and brushes her fingers through Tōshirō’s hair, tracing the braid, and she smiles softly as her slighter partner raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry,” Ichigo says. _I understand and I’m sorry_.

“Don’t be,” Tōshirō replies, swatting the hand away with a laugh so genuine that it even surprises her. “I realise now that there are more important things to get worked up over compared to somebody’s name. I’m glad you never listened to me.”

Her girlfriend doesn’t look any more appeased for those words. “I’m still sorry. My questionable manners don’t change that it _was_ important to you, do they?”

“No, they don’t,” Tōshirō agrees. “But then very little has ever been able to change your manners, has it?”

This time Ichigo laughs. She scratches the side of her nose in embarrassment, and Tōshirō feels triumph lift a smile onto her expression.

“Come, we should return,” she says, re-joining her hand with Ichigo’s. “We’ve been out here long enough.”

Before allowing herself to be led along the path, Ichigo leans down and dots a kiss onto Tōshirō’s forehead. “Thanks for telling me. You didn’t have to – I never would have asked.”

“I know. That’s why I told you. I do have a few more things to tell you though, so we can continue talking later tonight if you wish?”

“Sure, whatever you want – I’ll listen.” Ichigo nods and slides an arm around Tōshirō’s waist, bringing her close as they return. “Though it might have to wait – Kukaku looks like she’s about to kill us. Hey, didn’t you say _Shiba_ means something to your grandmother…?”

Tōshirō laughs, and about them, kido awakens in spheres of daylight colours to light their path back home.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Beautiful Descent' should make a bit more sense now :P Please note, Okubo hasn't been officially named, so I made it up.
> 
> Crown braid: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fk8y8jrHb-Y
> 
> Feel free to share your thoughts!


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